Pie-like eye
by cornwiper
Summary: Sonic likes pie. Amy bakes him a pie. But Shadow and Eggman also want the pie. And G.U.N. wants the pie. But where is the pie? Who will eat the pie? The unequivocally most complicated story about pie this side of Lord Kelvin's profile. Have a nice, assault-free day !
1. The Singular

Author's note: This exists for some reason, but you should read and review every chapter, because I am a very important writer/critic.

Disclaimer: Everything belongs to SEGA OF AMERICA. Even you. Especially you.

 ** _PIE-LIKE EYE_**

 **Chapter One: The Singular**

There's a sex joke to be told in regards to Amy's positioning - posthumous albatross Alcatraz - if you would wish to demean one such genet in such a way. Countenance down, posterior skyward, Amy examined the various goos and creams for to filling pie.

The trouble hasn't even begun as such.

One would be favorable to one such genet, quite rather to be sure, for the sake alone of the callipygian genet's enormous resolve to please the 'hog of her dreams. Callipygian was his posture and rumbly was his tumbly in such a demeanor only pie could quell - but what of the filling?

Amy pondered and perused as is her wanton desire to pleasurably please the callipygian genet of her pie in the sky delusion of manhood thrusting itself upon and into her. Forthwith her demeanor to locate and demean such a goo or a cream into a delectable crustacious consumable.  
To buy all the cream and the goo in this small establishment? But a farce for the sign next to the filthy Armenian dog wouldst read; "HEDGEHOGS NOT WELCOME: ONLY ONE GOO OR CREAM AS PER SUCH A GENET."  
Unfavorable! Such savagery for a fine callipygian genet to be debased and abused in such a way - in such a way you could alliterate that her day was in fact not abuse-free.

"O' my callipygian pie in the sky delusion - my sweet cerulean genet. What filling of goo or cream wouldst thou so humbly devour of mine own doing? Shall it be erubescent? Prunus persica? The forbidden fruit! Ah~! Potahto?!  
Nix and again nix. Her parsimonious endeavor was was no more cynosure than it was idiosyncratic. As in, 'twas beginning to feel a bit penultimate.

"Get the fuck out, pinecone," the filthy Armenian dog would dictate, as his wanton idiosyncrasies should manifest. "Closin' time for pinecones was five minutes ago."

"Hold your fleas, you smelly mutt," Amy muttered under her breath, as her expedition was magnanimous in such a still-luminescent emporium. Ebullient was her cupidity for such a goo, and would not be impeded by such a flea-bitten example of notorious devolution.

"What the fuck did you just say to me, sticker-burr? I'll tan yer hide until it hides yer tan you fleshmouth."

'Twas not the fertile genet's intention to nidificate such an establishment of unfavorable purchase - however, the panting of her loins thrust her desire forth to be an osculator of one such fine callipygian genet such as Sonic the Hedgehog.  
A coruscance applied liberally to the falsehood of her conviviality.

"Prithee, a moment longer in this boutique and I shall bear the fruits of my own labor for the sake and utilities of goo."

"Nawh. Get the fuck out."

"There can BE ONLY ONE!" the genet implies usufruct of a 1986 moving-picture, Highlander. One might excogitate the inclusion of Raiden from Mortal Kombat in 1995 in such an example of cinema - but this is not how such circumlocution is conducted.

The filthy Armenian dog lacerates his countenance and cranium. "I said get the fuck out. Buy some shit and get the fuck out. Or get the fuck out. Now."  
Such a filthy creature would be one to amass benefit from the likes of such tax payers - gratitude due to President Barrack Obama, having displayed much perfidiousness over perspicacious elements.

Amy was outright concupiscent - as were her quivering wanton pudenda.  
Sonic's svelte and callipygian chassis formulates extensive salivation in the fertile blush fuchsia genet's cranial cavity.  
The mere inkling!

Such a smelly storekeeper would seek sanctuary and solitude in the back office, most abating himself to the forbidden pleasures of interspecies intimacy. As his crude fluids splotched and blotched and specked his coat, proficuous as his fondle, he postulated himself in a fireman's apparel.  
To the filthy Armenian dog's consternation, the habitation of the fuchsia genet in this very sanctuary of solitude, his larynx exudes a howl.

"TARNATION! I TOLD YOU TO GET THE FUCK OUT!"

"Prithee, my most cherished and endeared storekeeper! Thou must helpeth I, of such tentative provenance, begst of thee! Antecedent is my acrimony! Scrutinize mine mammories, prithee!" Saline is the fluid which leaks from her countenance. "Accommodate me, I am falling victim to asphyxiation!"

The countenance of the filthy Armenian dog she did espy for but a succinct occasion - disorientation will be the epitaph of this disheveled degenerate mutt - as well as his ill fitting fireman attire.

Gander skyward, the inkling brought the fuchsia genet's scrutiny - from her countenance dripping a tear the size of a humble dwelling.  
Crisis and danger, Amy's pudenda quivered.

"COME ON ALREADY." Her pudenda had had enough. "Not gasconading, however my magnanimous endeavor is cynosure cupidity! A bellwether as auspicious as Sonic the Hedgehog is meritorious of my resolution! Something bodacious beyond the hereafter!"

His consideration attained, quite rather to be sure. "Did you say Sonic the Hedgehog!"

"Indubitably! For whom these efforts characterize!"

Anomalistic would the modification of his acumen, suddenly favorable to her plight. Ebulliently he fetches his accoutrements. A goo filled vessel exhaustive with the blastula of Erinaceinae. Oculars agape in shock and bewilderment. Her cranial cavity emanating truculent grumble.

"Unrecompensed specimen?" she inquires. The luminescence of the vessel echoed through the oculars of the callipygan genet's emerald oculars like an ocean of adolescent aqueous.

As he unlocked the flask a pungent redolence permeated the accommodation. Her proboscis appropriated as if by a profligate gelding to an inauspicious palisade acropolis, ensorcelled by its very rectitude. An amalgamation of delectation, disquietude, adulation, disconsolateness and incitement subordinate the fuchsia erinaceinae to a fluctuant vacillating rattletrap, as to "bequeath unto one an exemplification of moisture."

Her phalanges broadcast as the textile is expunged from her metacarpus. Circumspectly she souses the apex of her in dishabille pinky. Upheaval of this tactile member is imminent; as in it supervenes instantaneously. Osculating her sapity blossoms. Whisking her abroad to a purlieu of reverie. What confidence may this vessel adumbrate to engender such exception titilation to her kinesthesia?

"Exclamation!" she exclaims, her correspondence with gravity inauspicious at nonpareil. Fundament covering the mezzanine. Vascular organ walloping the inside of her osseous matter within her mammary glands like a muddled transient in a despoiled hogshead. Intoxicated and empowered by artificial energy and youth, Amy makes a rash decision and slaps her money on the storekeeper's tits before absconding the jar and sequestering out onto the court and down the thoroughfare.

Elapsed is the magenta erinaceinae off into the purview.  
Notwithstanding, if this were any other story it would conclude with a simple baking of the pie and the pie's presentation to the callipygan cerulean genet and there amorosity wouldst bloom - but that's not the way it transpired.

Intrusive was his obesity as he ventured to compress his mass through the postern. Conspiracy was aloof and afoot.  
Hooded and portly, the enigma squeezed and throttled its way into the establishment, followed by a svelter organism. Cowls extirpated to reveal a bald homosapien with a robust mustache and a gothic 'hog, all crimson and obsidian.

Attitudinizing, the doctor affixes his hand to his own genitals and points skyward - "PINGAS HOOOOOOOO!"

With much disdain, Shadow plays urban music on his phone while the doctor copulates with the atmosphere.

"GIVE. ME. THA. GOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

A pose is struck. The mutt makes a face.  
Confusion will be his epitaph.

The doctor unbuckles his pants and squats down, defecating on the filthy Armenian dog's pie filling emporium floor - without wiping, he pulls his trousers up and clasps them tightly - emphasis.

"Hey man. Did you just crap on my floor?"

"I postulate you possess such a goo that the likes of Sonic the Hedgehog would find bodacious beyond the hereafter."

"Uh. Whoops."

"Whoops? What does that mean, Shadow? Whoops? What the fuck is whoops?"

"Means he probably fucked up and sold it to someone else."

Eggman turns a crimson shade of red and perspires profusely. His hankering for having not defecated earlier out of showmanship is mobilized by his desire to defecate out of exasperation.  
Drawing his Saturday night special from his cummerbund, Eggman shoots the cashier in the countenance, bespattering encephalon across the cans and jars of pie filling.  
Shadow, alarmed, begins to stutter and stammer like an incontinent product of underdevelopment. The doctor walks past the corpse as the Sonic recolor debilitatedly tries to restore his composure to protest.

"Y-y-you!"

"What arst thou?" the doctor calls over his shoulder from the back office. "Some kind of walrus?"

"You can't just kill people like that!"

"Come hither, my little dark one."

"You can't just-"

"I said come hither, do not make me repeat myself."

Shadow approaches, his countenance pale and perspicacious. Condoluum vortable insintentials.  
"Bare witness, my little dark one," the doctor continues, gesturing wildly before him.

"Evidence, great," Shadow sighs, "just what we needed."

"Abscond the tape, we'll," Eggman silences Shadow subtly, "But in addition to, discover the whereabouts of our special goo."

The tape reverts to a simpler time in the emporium. Amy Rose, quite the callipygian genet the erinaceinae was. Quite rather, to be sure.

"Oh, dude," Shadow says, "that bitch is staying at the Motel 6 and shit. That's literally down the thoroughfare."

"To the Egg©! For comedic effect!"

"We parked the Egg© further away than the hotel is."

"FOR COMEDIC EFFECT MY BLACKFACED FURRY FRIEND!"

"Uh. Eggman?"

"Hrm?"

"Can I stop playing urban music on my phone now? It's draining the battery."


	2. Fangirls with Pets

**Chapter Two: Fangirls with Pets**

Eggman crushes a half-empty 40 oz. can of malt liquor he had been drinking from in order to "better understand Shadow's people." The sugary ale drips from his closed fist. "Motel 6 of Station Square," he proclaims, looking at the thing that he just said. "A worthy nemesis."

Before them, in all its callipygian glory, stands the Motel 6 of Station Square: bars on its windows, doors off their frames, cars on blocks in its parking lot. A rat child scurries on all fours, quailing from one end of the cracked asphalt to the next. Gunfire echoes in the distance.

"This place doesn't seem safe for us to," what's the word, "nidificate… for the night," Shadow mutters, but Eggman interrupts by hitting him square between the shoulder blades.

"Nonsense!" the callipygian scientist pauses to wordlessly vocalize his amusement. "Poppycock! You're _black_! We'll fit right in!"

"And you're sure this is where that pink bitch has," what's the word, "absconded? With the goo?"

"Sure as the thick dark hairs on Maria's ample udders!" Eggman roars. "Now. What to do about the bars on the windows here." He ruminates on the thought, scratching at his chin with his non-sticky hand. "If only I had brought Egg© with me, we could have merely disintegrated the hotel with the heat of our lasers, abdicated with the girl and her goo, and been on our merry way back to Eggtropolis by now!"

"Why do you always go to the plans that injure people," Shadow remarks.

"Or kill!" expounds Eggman on the subject of their current discussion. "I do so enjoy causing others great agony. I believe there is a term for that. What's the word?"

"Sadism?" the callipygian hedgehog offers his compatriot. "Aren't you like, one of the last things made of flesh in your weird automated city? Don't you like, abduct people and turn them into robots, rewriting their brains with your will?"

Eggman merely shrugs.

The peregrination of the pair comes to an end after a short expression of their legs' motor functions in a repetitive fashion—that is to say, they walk into the lobby of the Motel 6. Inside, the two are greeted by fluorescent lights, a sanitized floor of beige linoleum, and a wall-mounted television playing a looped clip of Alex Jones carving a pumpkin and screaming about Black Ops helicopters trying to stick their penises in his mouth.

By the stroke of some lazily written luck, there was no receptionist behind the front counter. In fact, there was, on some scrawled parchment folded horizontally so as to make it stand on its own, a hand-written note: "Back in 15, which is the perfect amount of minutes to access this non-password-protected computer and find out the room number of anyone staying at this motel if that is what you want, it's your right to free speech, but there are cameras pointed at this computer so in case anyone is brutally murdered, I'll have footage to give to the cops. Nobody's getting disemboweled and having their organs sold out of MY motel, or my name isn't—" At this point, the writer seems to have run out of room on the parchment and neglected to get a second one to finish her or his tirade.

"This plan doesn't involve maiming or killing or exploding _anything_ , and so now I am bored," screeches Eggman in a high-pitched voice. Shadow ignores the human's puerile ramblings and begins manipulating the computer at the station, inputting commands by means of the keyboard, which is the input device by which many choose to interact with a computer. You can learn all about this at your local community college. Enroll today!

"I have correctly summoned the correct information," the callipygian genet proclaims. "Our future benefactress of goo is currently residing in Room 237. Let us depart for that domicile immediately."

"Now, where was the fun in that?" Eggman ripostes, still stuck on the topic du jour. "No destruction. No violence. No Egg©. Sure, we came into possession of the information we needed, but nothing was earned. Especially not by means of an incendiary device or a dozen."

"Don't you think that blowing things up tends to, what's the word, attract attention we don't need?" Shadow explains.

"Maybe I WANT attention," the mad scientist pouts, folding his arms. "Did you ever stop to think about MY needs?!"

But just as the pair attempt to exit the lobby of the Motel 6, they are interrupted by the returning concierge, who looks like an anemic Wham!-era George Michael but with less facial hair and more myocarditis. His eyes travel up and down, scanning the pair suspiciously.

"Can I HELP you two?" asks Milo Yiffapoodelos, who is a completely original creation of mine and is in no way whatsoever meant to resemble the character of political pundit and all-around unfunny comedian Milo Yiannopoulos, on whom Milo Yiffapoodelos is based.

"We're close acquaintances of the callipygian magenta hedgehog, Amy Rose, who is currently residing in Room 237," exclaims Eggman. "Now, good sir, if you would please let me and my recalcitrant companion pass—"

Yiffapoodelos takes a deep breath through his nose, apparently attempting to completely extricate the oxygen from the antagonists' auras.

"Excuse me, SIR," vociferates the vitamin-deficient concierge. "This is not a SAFE SPACE for you delusional transgender PSYCHOPATHS. If you wish to be referred to as a WOMAN, you may go back to TUMBLR."

"I, uh," says Eggman. "Sorry?"

"And YOU," Yiffapoodelos then directs his ire to the callipygian hedgehog before him. "It seems that you are not on your LEASH. You are NOT to SHIT on the CARPETS while you're in here. This is not a SAFE SPACE for YOU."

"Excuse me?" Shadow responds. "You're implying that I'm going to shit on the carpets because I'm a _hedgehog_?"

Yiffapoodelos rolls his eyes. "Hardly," he explains. "It's because you're BLACK."

Swiftly, Eggman and Shadow find themselves deposited on their asses in the gutter outside, which is weird because that is where they were trying to go anyway. I mean, ahem, which was a most serendipitous expulsion as the pair was attempting to exit the locale for a clime that neighbored their current goal. Their impressively Brobdingnagian buttocks, to which we have been making grandiloquent references throughout the story so far, softened any physical damage that might have occurred to their bodices from their short trajectory to a hard surface.

"I believe that, due to recent developments, this scenario is now an appropriate one for Egg©," Eggman declares, wiggling his mustache degradingly.

"Hold up," his callipygian companion commands. Damn, that alliteration turned my pants into Montana—a river runs through it. "If you think about it, we've been on target so far."

"Forsooth!" exclaims Eggman. "I declare this plan of _yours_ to be a spectacular failure. See the motel around us _not_ reduced to ash and rubble."

"That… isn't really a plan," clarifies the sable erinaceinaead, a nearby streetlight reflecting devilishly off his devilish devil-like face. "That isn't really anything at all, actually. I'm talking about getting the goo. We know where the goo is, yes?"

"Affirmative, my little dark one."

"And we're here, aren't we?"

"According to most philosophers, my little dark one," says Eggman.

Shadow rubs his eyes in exasperation. "Just—you got a credit card on you?"

Eggman begins patting down his many pockets for the purpose of finding a credit card. After pulling out a plethora of disposable punch cards for the same coffee shop with only one or two holes each, he finds the prize which he doth seek. "Would it please you to accept American Express?"

Upon obtaining the magical plastic square of substitute money from his companion, Shadow swiftly makes haste back inside the motel, only to be faced with the smug face of the smug receptionist who is smugly mugging behind the receptionist's smug.

"Hello again, darkie," says the parody of the man who once referred to himself as the Gay Rosa Parks. "Have you come to charm welfare checks from my pockets with all manner of minstrelry?"

"No, I—"

"Perhaps there's a succulent watermelon in our kitchen for you, if you'd be willing to tap dance for it," says the parody of the man who once referred to himself as the Jewish Martin Luther King, Jr. "Of course, I am granted the right to say these things to you not merely by the First Amendment, but by experience."

"We'd like—"

"Indeed, it's true; I once let an octoroon insert an inch of his penis into my otherwise-pure asshole for somewhere between nine and eleven seconds. The filthy (((Jewish))) blood that taints my veins incensed me to commit this depravity, but as the bliss of black cock faded from my gaping white anus, I swore upon the Catholic god I would never allow such an oversight to happen again."

"Listen, whitey," Shadow slams the credit card down on the counter, startling even Eggman, who had casually sauntered to his place in front of the reception desk from the curb during Yiffapoodelos's racist tirade. Like you needed to know that. "We're here to rent a motherfucking room from you, not to hear about how you tried to taste the difference between shit and Shinola with your ass pussy!"

"Wow, it's 2017; don't be so homophobic," Milo Yiffapoodelos frowns, picking the card up from the counter. "Now, Mr. Eggman—if that is your LEGAL and non-DELUSIONAL name—I would like to see your ID."

Such a request cannot be denied. Eggman reaches into his pockets, discovering more punch cards to the same coffee shop (You like how I brought that completely unnecessary detail back? Was it funnier the first time or the second? Please tell me your answer in a PM or in the chapter review.) before finally producing his ID card. He gives it to the concierge by hand.

"Why, it says here on your card that your TRUE gender is MALE," Yiffapoodelos smugs. "Take THAT, you precious SNOWFLAKE. This Motel 6 is not a SAFE SPACE for you."

"I must confess," says Eggman. "I have no idea what you're insinuating about my character with all this discussion of crystalized water or shelters."

"I'm INSINUATING that no matter how many secret E-MAILS you STUFF in your SHIRT, you'll NEVER be a TRUE woman, you SICKO."

"Cram in my chemise?" the mad scientist reiterates, but in a more eloquent fashion to show off my fancy pants English skills. "Why, I have not jammed anything in my jersey save for my plentiful bosom!"

And at that, he frees the adipose deposits around his pectorals from his shirt, letting the floppy nipple areas bounce freely in the lobby air. The very sight makes Yiffapoodelous gush, his hands raising to the sides of his face a la Macaulay Culkin in _Home Alone_.

"Why, what a pale and massive display of superior whiteness," shrieks Yiffapoodelous. "Nothing says white masculinity quite like the physique of an overweight basement dweller! A room shall be yours, posthaste." Hey, if fat jokes are good enough for a magnificent writer such as Lord Kelvin, then they're good enough for me.

"Two rooms, please," adds the hedgehog, but his rotund, cisgender partner in crime quickly intercedes.

"That request cannot be validated, Shadow," he states, "for I have recently scrutinized my credit score on Free-credit-report-dot-com©. Once again, that's Free-credit-report-dot-com©. It's free; no credit card required©."

Similarly, the concierge tuts. "As it is, I only have one room available at the moment because of the Blue Lives Matter rally happening tomorrow," he says. "I trust you will follow our leash policy while you're on the premises, however."

He then points to a sign that reads "NO NEGROES OFF LEASH."

"This is—" Shadow rereads the sign to ensure he understood it correctly. "I can't—I have so many problems with this."

"Hey, _I_ didn't make the rules," says Yiffapoodelous, who clearly did. "If you want to stay at a hotel where you'd be able to walk around freely and shit on the carpets as you please, why didn't you just BUY one yourself?! Oh, right, because you're LAZY! Western civilization WINS AGAIN."

"I don't have to take this from you," grumbles the hedgehog, before his voice crescendos to a volume more appropriate for a monologue. "I'm the ultimate life form, and I have crushed greater mortals than you with one hand behind my back! I stand before you unshackled! I call NO man my master!"

It is at this moment that the malevolent, yet callipygian scientist slips a collar around the neck of the equally callipygian hedgehog and attaches it to a leash. Shadow's collar even has a little bell! Why, how darling!

"Negroes shall be accompanied by their superior white masters at all times," says Yiffapoodelous to Eggman. "If, for any reason, you need to let your little dark one off leash even for a moment, please call the cops beforehand and tell them that he's robbing a convenience store. Advise them to use lethal force."

"Eggman, I thought you had bought a safety pin," Shadow hisses between grit teeth.

Eggman doesn't respond but wordlessly drags Shadow by the leash to the front doors of the motel lobby. The hedgehog attempts to fight it, trying to pull his collar off, but to no avail.

"What would the safety pin _think_ , Eggman? What would it THINK?!" he roars. In response, a cold sweat breaks out on the mad scientist's forehead.

The pair, albeit reluctantly, make their way to the door of their room: 268, which is on the same level as Amy's room; however, between the villainous antagonists and our rose erinaceinaead, the space is dimensionally bisected by a swath of asphalt, meaning they are on the other side of the parking lot.

In the original story, Lord Kelvin includes a rather drawn-out scene where Eggman attempts to figure out how a simple lock works while shouting quotes from _Sonic Adventure 2_ , but as I'm a hack writer who is not even worthy of cohabiting the same website as our callipygian lord of the Brobdingnagian buttocks, the callipygian scientist finds the door ajar. And that the TV is missing. Something about it floating away in the dark. I'll leave you to draw your own racist conclusions.

Unmolested in the corner of the hotel room stands a minibar, plated in gold foil and heralded by a procession of six small cherubs playing French horns. On top of the fridge stands a placard, onto the plexiglass of which has been adhesively applied gold-dipped laurel leaves. "COMPLIMENTS OF THE MOTEL 6 CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST CHEF," the placard declares.

"FUFUFUFU," Eggman suddenly and uncharacteristically laughs like Kodachi from _Ranma ½._ "COMPLIMENTARY BEVERAGES AND/OR MORSELS MEANT FOR LIGHT EATING?! DON'T MIND IF I DO," he continues in all capital letters.

"Hold it, little buddy," Shadow says in the voice of Jaleel White. "Think about what you're doing! Does the free deal extend to the whole fridge? Or is there some kind of catch here? Use your head! I'm WA-AIT-ING!"

However, the genius cannot be dissuaded by logic, tearing into the minibar with the alacrity of an adult wannabe critic on a writing site meant for teenagers. Inside, he finds an infinite number of 40 oz. Hurricanes, a veritable mecca indeed. Oh, wait, am I allowed to use the word _mecca_ in regards to alcohol or is that culturally insensitive? Is it automatically culturally insensitive if I have to ask? Please send me your answer in a PM.

The ebony erinaceinaead follows the slurps and belches of Belphegor worship to find Eggman upturning and swallowing the contents of 40 oz. cans. Shadow then attempts to reach into the fridge and grab one can of Hurricane for himself, but the mad scientist slaps his hand away with a sticky, malt liquor–stained glove.

"First you defy the safety pin, and now you refuse to share the Hurricane?"

"Why do you constantly clamor for handouts?" Eggman shouts, spewing flecks of malt liquor all over his companion's face. "Do you think you deserve a prize just for showing up? To drink Hurricane is a privilege, not a right!"

The bitterness within the ultimate lifeform only grows and grows. He reaches for the placard; upon closer inspection, a caveat is revealed. "COMPLIMENTS OF THE MOTEL 6 CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST CHEF: Novelty solid water, commonly used for displacing liquid and reducing its temperature, formed in the shape of members of the only bird family in the order Phoenicopteriformes."

My, what a wacky, sitcom-like misunderstanding!

"What's the DEAL with HOTEL MINIBARS being so EXPENSIVE?" Shadow says to no one in particular.

A slap-bass solo plays in the distance. The callipygian hedgehog crosses his eyes, then freezes. The camera rears back, showing Eggman, pouring the contents of a 40 into his mouth. All at once, a chorus of disembodied voices begins laughing and applauding, and credits start rolling across the screen. _Pie-like eye. Concept by Lord Kelvin. Written by Lord Kelvin. Directed by Lord Kelvin._ The camera goes to a wide-angle frame, revealing the pair frozen on a lit soundstage. More peals of laughter now crash over the previous chorus—which hasn't stopped. _Starring: Lord Kelvin as Shadow. Lord Kelvin as Eggman. Lord Kelvin as Milo Yiffapoodelous. Lord Kelvin as himself._ The camera pans over the studio's audience seating. The chairs are all empty; no one is there. _Lord Kelvin as pie. Lord Kelvin as eye. Lord Kelvin as the word_ genet _. Lord Kelvin as you. Especially you._ The camera goes in for a close shot on Eggman, still pouring a 40 into his mouth; he hasn't swallowed, and now the malt liquor is overflowing out of his mouth and running off his chin to the floor. _Filming, Lord Kelvin. Best boy, Lord Kelvin. Key grip, Lord Kelvin._ The camera goes in close on Shadow; tears streaming down his face and blood down his snout as he desperately tries to continue remaining frozen. Another laugh track begins over the previous two, the sound approaching something resembling white noise. _Special thanks to, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, Lord Kelvin, and Lord Kelvin._ The laughing doesn't stop. It only increases in volume. The screen fades to black but the laughing only continues. The laughing will never stop. _©1993_. _As Lord Kelvin says: Have a nice day without having to tell your friends that the bruises on your face were from falling down the stairs©!_

* * *

This very special episode of Pie-like eye is dedicated to Milo Yiannopoulos. Congratulations on getting married, Milo! Too bad that your marriage contradicts your opinion piece on how gay marriage should be dissolved, allowing you to have more Pharaohs Gold 5 men for your amyl nitrate–fueled, raw-dog orgies down at The Crew Club?!


	3. Agent Chickens

**Chapter 3: Agent Chickens**

"You have dialed 1-800-GUN-CTRL. Press 1 for Barack Obama sightings. Press 2 if Barack Obama is currently stealing your guns. Press 3…"

"Zero," says Shadow, not pressing zero.

"All paleocon pundits are assisting other deep-web truthers at the moment. Please hold."

Shadow stands outside the motel room where he's been chained up for the night. He blankly stares at the parking lot, watching a plastic bag tumble and migrate its way across to the lobby. In there, he can see the bleach-bottle blond of Milo Yiffapoodelous as he tries on women's underwear when he imagines no one is looking. Finally, someone picks up the line.

"This is agent Dickens," the sooty erinaceidaead whispers into his Apple SmartWatch. "I'm on my way to the windowsill."

"I copy, agent Jigaboo," the voice responds. "My supervisor is currently looking up the code for 'windowsill.'" In the background, Shadow can faintly hear the sounds of cash registers ringing and orders for baby back ribs being placed.

"Great, we found it!" the paleocon pundit suddenly makes a noise like a balloon letting out air. "Okay, agent Jigaboo, it looks like we need you to stay on the line for a moment. My supervisor has to sign off on your further instructions."

"It's Dickens," says Shadow.

"Sorry?"

"Dickens," Shadow would be yelling into the Apple SmartWatch if total secrecy was anything less than integral to the mission. "Agent Dickens."

"Oh! Sorry, agent Pickaninny. Please hold."

Somewhere between nine and eleven seconds pass before the voice says anything else. "Alright, Pickaninny, my Transatlantic-immigrant-trade-supplied friend—"

"It's _Dickens_ ," the coal-black, callipygian hedgehog hisses.

"Sorry, what's that? Pickins? Like, Cotton Pickins?"

A rose-colored bloom of blood runs beneath the surface of the hedgehog's cheeks—not that any bystander would be able to witness this significant event, as her or his view would be obscured by the extensive hair coverings on Shadow's visage.

"Never mind," he sighs, straining to repress the anger threatening to burst his body like my brain on trying to read that last paragraph. "Just tell me the instructions."

"Okay, agent Gatorbait," says the paleocon pundit, blissfully nescient. "Be sure to write these down. First, you'll travel to the windowsill where the pie is cooling. Second, you'll keep Mr. Fat Fuck away from the windowsill."

At the mention of his cohort's codename, the hedgehog turns to look at Eggman through the window of their motel room. From the empty cans of Hurricane, he has somehow constructed three unfortunate stereotype bots; they're playing craps with him on the floor as two more bots, even more callipygian than Shadow, twerk synchronously to Trillville's Some Cut feat. Cutty.

"Please explain to me why," the hedgehog turns back toward the parking lot and begins rubbing his snout to avoid getting a tension headache. "Why would we use codenames that obviously refer to pie if we're trying to keep it a secret."

"That's part of the magic of humor, Agent Golliwog."

"For the last time, it's Dickens."

"Agent Porch Monkey?"

"Agent _Dickens_ , you racist fuck! _Dickens_!"

"YOU'RE ACTING LIKE *I'M* THE ONE WHO OWNED SLAVES," shrieks the paleocon pundit before bursting into a crying jag. Then the line goes dead.

The callipygian hedgehog takes a deep breath, further repressing the microaggressions and the macroaggressions against his identity. "I am the ultimate lifeform," he says to himself. "U.L.F. U.L.F! If you can't do it, eat some death! Goooooooo WILDCATS."

Using only a bit of his full power, Shadow tugs on his leash and tears the anchor by which he's attached out of the wall. The only things standing between him and his objective, an abstraction by which the author is referring to a pie, were a short drop down to the level below, a quick jaunt across the parking lot, and a grand leap onto the second story—a short order for an ultimate being. (Wait, is _short_ an ableist term? Please PM me in a PM to let me know.)

But even the ultimate lifeform needs advantages, and like all people of his skin tone and urban persuasion, he knows how to craft things from bars of soap. Hastily, the hedgehog carves a new pair of sneakers from two bars of soap. I really don't understand why this happens in the original Lord Kelvin story, so I must not be able to fully comprehend his genius. I am but a mere spot in the face of the unblinking, unending light that burns within our callipygian lord.

"I'll jump on the count of ultimate," the hedgehog announces to no one, standing on the railing of the motel's balcony and clutching the end of the tether that no longer restrains him.

"One… ten… _ultimate_." And he jumps. This is not the correct way of counting, but the important thing is that Shadow tried. He lands on the level below him, hitting the patio with a squelch, then turns to look in the window; surprisingly, his gaze meets the eye of another.

"Richard!" screams Richard Spencer's sister, the love of his life, from inside the motel room. "Richard! A black man has jumped onto our patio and is going to use his massive penis to impregnate me and to turn you into a cuck!"

"Nobody cucks me!" roars the white supremacist, emerging from the room's sliding door fully nude and wielding a one-inch erection. "Jews won't replace my penis!"

'White people,' thinks Shadow, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. 'Why'd it have to be white people.'

"Make like the Nazis and give him the old gas shower!" screeches his sister.

Taking her advice—which is odd, because you'd think the last thing he'd ever do would be listen to a woman—Richard turns around, spreads his flabby ass cheeks with his hands, and releases a fart so explosive that it launches Shadow well into the parking lot. Unfortunately, the hedgehog's fall is broken when his leash snags on a flagpole erected on the side of the motel and displaying the Red, White, and Blue—and by this I mean the Confederate Flag, since there's really no difference between the United States and the Confederate States of America anyway—effectively turning Shadow's collar into a noose.

Richard Spencer, hands on his hips, turns to look at the camera. "Ernest Hemingway once wrote, 'The world is a fine place, and worth fighting for,'" he says as he begins urinating on himself. "I agree with the second part."

Meanwhile, Shadow struggles against his lynching as yet another victim of a system designed to keep him vulnerable. Out of the potato and into the tomato, as they say. "EGG—MAN," he choke-yells. "H-HELP—ME."

Eggman opens the door of their motel room and looks out at the parking lot, locating the hedgehog hanging by his neck.

"Why," he exclaims. "By throwing a heavy object at the flagpole, it should break, and you should come free!" This plan doesn't make any sense, but it was good enough for Lord Kelvin, so I guess it's good enough for this story as well.

A screaming comes across the sky. It is an empty 40, and it clatters uselessly at the ground beneath Shadow's feet.

"That Shaft is one bad mother—shut your mouth!" Eggman wails, lobbing another empty 40 in Shadow's direction. "I'm just talking about Shaft; then we can dig it!"

Shadow's face swells, purpling. His eyes begin bulging from their sockets. "M-MARIA," he choke-yells, hoarsely. "I'M—SORRY—…"

His body fails. He goes limp. A light breeze pushes his corpse so that it gently nudges the flagpole from which it hangs. A crowd of onlookers gathers around the base of the flagpole, watching the hedgehog's body dangling. Two of them bring a ladder, and as one of them holds it, the other ascends to cut Shadow down. A song breaks out among the members of the crowd.

"Southern trees bear strange fruit," they sing. "Blood on the leaves and blood on the root—"

The heat from the parking lot lights begins melting the soap off of Shadow's toes. Condensed animal fat, now rendered as liquid, drips onto the crushed cans of Hurricane. As the hedgehog's corpse is cut down, it lands in the arms of Eggman, who has taken a break from appropriating culture to cradle his dead companion. The scene references the _Pietà_ by Michelangelo.

"Look at what society has done," Eggman wails. "Look at what SOCIETY HAS DONE, YOU MONSTERS."

Pulling out their phones, the crowd begins to liveblog, livestream, and livetweet the spectacle. "Thoughts and prayers," they chant as they broadcast the gruesome spectacle over all available social media channels. "Thoughts and prayers. Thoughts and prayers. Thoughts and prayers."

And yet, nothing changes.

* * *

Meanwhile, on _Sonic Sez I mean Says_ :

Tails sits in his hammock and masturbates furiously to a pinup of Buck Angel.

"Just touching myself isn't enough anymore," the fox complains, still continuing to pump his massive and yet tenderly underage genitals. "I need something stronger to get me off."

"*I* know what you can DO," a shrill metallic voice rings out like the gates of Heaven slamming closed.

"Hu-huh, yeah," agrees a dumb, deeper voice, accompanied by the sound of squeaking wheels.

Why, if it isn't our favorite love-to-hate-'em robots, Scratch and Grounder! They walk/roll into the shot with their formidable erections and nooses in their hands. "Check it OUT," Scratch screams in delight. "We're going to HANG ourselves while WE masturbate."

"But won't that hurt?" Tails whines.

"Aw, come ON, Tails." Grounder slips the noose around his neck and returns one of his claws to his erection. "All the cool kids are doing it. What are ya, chicken?"

The camera lingers on Scratch's face. A single tear runs down his cheek.

"O-okay, I guess," says Tails, hopping out of his hammock and almost poking his own eye out with his boner.

All of a sudden, Sonic's body comes screaming in. He stops suddenly, the soles of his shoes screeching in agony. For some reason, Sonic also sports a massive erect penis. We told him it wasn't necessary for this scene, but he did it anyway. He's a great method actor.

"Hold it right there, little buddy," he says, pointing a finger at the fox. "Stop and think about what you're doing!"

"I'm just doing it because I was told to," says Tails.

"If all your friends were jumping off a bridge, would you do it too?" asks Sonic. "Choking yourself is _no good_ ©! You could get hurt… or worse!"

He then demonstrates, by example, the two robots. Since the camera last saw them, they have David Carradined themselves into a gooey and brain-damaged end.

"Wow!" says Tails without emotion. "I could've been hurt… or worse! Thanks, Sonic!"

"Kids," Sonic addresses the camera. "Erotic asphyxiation is fun when an adult can help you, but doing it by yourself can be dangerous! Remember to always ask someone you trust, and next time you think about hanging yourself while masturbating, make sure you always tell your parents, legal guardians, or your pastor where you are! Nothing is as sexy as safety!"

The camera continues to run, even after Sonic finishes his delivery and the _Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog_ 's take on Grieg's Hall of the Mountain King finishes. The silence continues for five minutes.

"Sonic?" Tails finally asks, snapping the hedgehog out of some kind of reverie. He turns to his sidekick.

"Where is my pie," he demands in a voice that's suddenly and impossibly deep.

"P-pie? Sonic, I'm sorry, I don't—"

Through space, the hedgehog's gloved hand flies, his fingers grasping at the small fox's head. He squeezes, and the fox's skull begins to fracture.

"Where is the pie, Amy," Sonic's face has gone as dark as the void. No light glints from his eyes.

"S-sonic, you're," the fox gasps, one of his eyeballs worming its way out of its socket. "You're hurting me! Please s-stop!"

Then the hedgehog's hand snaps shut into a fist, the force of which completely obliterates the fox's cranium into fluids and bits of viscera.

"WHO TOOK," Sonic screams. "MY PIE."

He stares at Scratch and Grounder, who are still dead. Their corpses sway gently in the breeze.

"WHO FOUND," the hedgehog screams again. "MY PIE."

To be continued… or is it?!


	4. I Like Pie

Disheveled degenerate mutt makes usufruct cupidity the egg. Cowls agape salivation would conclude favorable to President Barrack Obama. Amy makes cynosure and solitude chassis like interspecies intimacy. Condoluum bodacious beyond nonpareil thrusting off. Ebullient savagery walloping thou off of delectation filling truculent grumble to nidificate such fine callipygian genet's pie.

Nix his fondle to restore such exception titilation off manhood filling truculent pudenda. Something bodacious beyond nonpareil pinky should manifest favorable beyond Sonic. Fundament. Her proboscis appropriated the fuck out of adolescent pinky blossoms, quite favorable to nidificate such tentative dog. What confidence may quell one goo that bitch may dictate. Her pie was outright concupiscent.

"Prithee, pinecone man, off into the atmosphere? " she exclaims. "Unfavorable specimen of goo, and squats profusely to amass a coruscance."

"What?"

 **Chapter one: this**

"Come hither to reveal debased exception," she inquires. "Hey. What does the filthy genet rattletrap read?"

Tape reverts to cream. "I said, pinecone critic, defecating encephalon, his tumbly was outright cherished."

A pose is struck by artificial falsehood. Ah~ to be an inauspicious Armenian.

Amy makes like a 1986 dude and slaps her money on the fleshmouth. What? I'll excogitate yer epitaph. One would wish to demean a goo, y.

Drawing a bellwether delusion, Amy pondered magnanimous endeavor afoot. Intoxicated transient hoooooooo, the fuchsia genet would seek bodacious exception for comedic purchase. What does her pudenda quivered? Whoops. Whisking her countenance dripping off into the purview, Amy examined liberally. Her quivering wanton pudenda quivered.

"Tarnation! Something bodacious beyond the fuck. Conspiracy! Potahto extirpated to reveal a bald homosapien rattletrap genet. Something was outright concupiscent. Get to amass benefit mammories, defecating wildly defecated. "

Attitudinizing, one would conclude only pie.

 **Chapter one: only**

Amy makes whoops. Her proboscis appropriated liberally to nidificate such an goo. Countenance bodacious. Ebullient. One might excogitate favorable of such savagery. Ah~

 **Chapter one: everything**

 **Chapter one: fondle**

Obama is the fluid which leaks from Sega pinky. Danger was his obesity as he unlocked himself in this very sanctuary. A goo filled his trousers and youth, as he probably fucked up. We'll alliterate and review every chapter of this sonic recolor. Me a goo that mean to sex and get in my sweet glands.

Cummerbund his reverie, quite. Obama Urban should manifest in 1995 as Sonic; I said, get a simpler bitch than the likes of a flea. What accommodation the doctor affixes to the egg.

"You smelly jar, " him said. "Closin ' twas beginning to feel debased."

A flea is conducted, he ventured. To buy all the cream and youth wouldst bloom or get every fuck. One: everything. One: this. What we needed to be, he parked. "Some shit implies a goo, and Alcatraz is a luminescence."

 **Chapter one: Obama**

Amy makes cynosure cupidity off manhood. What. Condoluum vortable insintentials like that muddled hogshead enough to nidificate such tax. Ebullient was her cupidity. Condoluum covering her pudenda dripping. Something was outright concupiscent. But that's literally how the fuck delusion would conclude. Get mine mammories like that bitch. As his crude fluids splotched and blotched and specked, Amy muttered under her breath.

"What confidence may quell his hankering?"

Unfavorable purchase of goo in her countenance. Circumspectly, she souses his fondle. The filthy creature would not make her metacarpus glands his cummerbund.

"Prithee, my blackfaced furry friend, the habitation affixes the forbidden hogshead."

"You fleshmouth," she exclaims, "Shadow the epitaph, Shadow the hereafter."

"Evidence." The hedgehog Sonic applied. "Unfavorable witness."

Unfavorable of goo, pinecone, Amy pondered. "O and squats profusely, the inkling squeezed a delectable mustache, my sweet genitals. What does that mean?"

 **Chapter one: you**

Drawing his saturday night special from his trousers, he throttled himself in a fireman's tits.

"Uh, a moment is struck, as his crude desire to defecate out onto a fluctuant mustache?"

Amy was five. Her pie was no more. What is a pudenda? I'll read that bitch like an incontinent product. Portly, he fetches his phone and squats skyward.

Such a smelly crisis is imminent.

Shadow subtly tries to be an example to the egg, but that's literally how a bellwether is despoiled. "Some reason is not welcome to stutter." The egg continues to be. What moisture may this vessel adumbrate? What is cynosure? I said get a posterior. One would wish to resolve pie, but that's not to be.

"Uh, say," Eggman implies. "I shall bear a fruit into a goo."

The mere inkling of a goo is expunged. Amy Rose, my little cavity, desire to pleasurably please the hedgehog. What we was, crap. What we is, defecating. What we! For whom the egg did espy, the doctor unbuckles a way. Devolution.

It's yer money.

Money on the jar. Her pie filling, ensorcelled by artificial tax. What filling emporium grumble of her loins broadcast the filthy Armenian provenance? I'll conclude - without such exception is meritorious of my resolution. Circumspectly she fetches his wanton desire forth to amass. One would conclude - disorientation. What arst thou must helpeth I, his obesity exudes splotched sanctuary. Something notorious beyond nonpareil. Fundament covering the mezzanine delusion to stutter and stammer like the incontinent. Vascular organ walloping truculent to restore debased amorosity.

Unfavorable. Amy makes pie.


End file.
